


where the lights shine as bright as your eyes

by mercutioes



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, PASTA DATE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 03:58:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11959254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutioes/pseuds/mercutioes
Summary: "He's not sure exactly where he went wrong with Samothes, because he’s absolutely hopeless at cooking."





	where the lights shine as bright as your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> here's a teeny tiny lil angst-free pasta date for linda's birthday!!!!! blessed be the original creator of samsam.
> 
> title from "city by the water" by gina sicilia, which i listened to on repeat and is deffo an early samsam happy song

Samol has lived for thousands of years, has seen civilizations rise and fall and met every kind of person there is to meet.  He's raised gods out of impulse and held sway over a whole continent, and yet.

He's not sure exactly where he went wrong with Samothes, because he’s absolutely _hopeless_ at cooking.

This man, this god who’s built towers and intricate machines and the _god damn sun_ can’t follow simple instructions in the kitchen.  Samol rescues the second pot of carbonara sauce from meeting a sad, burnt death on the stove while Samothes cuts fresh squash and zucchini into cubes, precise but slow – there’s no _feeling_ in it.  _Hopeless_.

Samothes nicks his finger with the knife and curses, short and sharp.  Samol smacks the back of his head – this is still his house, after all.

“I _told_ you to keep your fingers curled in,” he chides, shooing Samothes away from the cutting board and demonstrating, the motions of the knife practiced and second-nature.  Samothes watches, eyes sharp and perceptive.  Samol hands him back the knife, goes to check on the sauce.  The sounds of chopping start up again, but it’s still too slow, too precise, too… _something._ He watches Samothes from across the kitchen, shakes his head with equal parts fondness and exasperation.

“Y’know, there ain’t blueprints for cooking,” he says.  “You have to let it take you where it wants to go.”

Samothes makes a frustrated noise, tosses down the knife.  Samol sighs, tugs Samothes out of the kitchen.  He sits his son down on a creaking chair, leaves a hand on his shoulder.

“You really like this boy, don’t you.”

Samothes goes red in the apples of his cheeks, eyes cast down to the side.

“Yeah,” he says, voice smaller than Samol’s heard it since Samothes was a boy.  “I do.”  Samol huffs out a laugh, ruffles Samothes’ hair fondly.

“Invite him over,” he says.  “I’ll make sure everything goes right.”

\--

And, to Samol’s eternal surprise, everything _does_ go right.

Samot arrives dressed in shimmering robes, bottle of wine in his hand and a smile on his lips.  Samothes blushes at the sight of him, Samol notes with a smile hidden behind his hand.  Hopeless, the both of them.

Samol tries to stay out of the way as much as possible, let the two of them talk and eat in peace, but he can’t help but listen in surreptitiously from the other room.  It’s cute, reminds him of his first encounters with Tristero so many years ago, stilted and stuttering and enamored beyond reason.  They don’t eat much, too caught up in each other, and though Samol wants to be mad (it was a _damn_ good carbonara), he gets it.  Hard to focus on pasta when you’re staring at each other and all that.

They go outside afterwards, stand by the shoreline.  From his armchair in the living room, Samol can see them through the sheer curtains over the window, standing close but not too close – yet.  Samothes says something that makes Samot laugh, not delicately but a real hearty laugh, and it makes Samothes smile, flush with pride.  Soft moonlight illuminates the both of them.

And then Samot tugs Samothes down, pulls him into a kiss, and fondness for the both of them swells in Samol’s chest.  He smiles to himself, turns away to afford the two of them some privacy.

“About time,” he mumbles, heading into the dining room to clear the plates.  “About damn time.”


End file.
